Attack of the Fenpaca
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because of this abububububu
Nothing is right in Kirkwall. Nothing feels right anymore. Lives slipping through his fingers like fresh, wet blood; the screams of the innocent still pervading his senses like chokedamp.
“Are you all right?” asks Al as he crawls wearily into the large bed from the wrong side.
On the sheets where he lies, across and against the grain of all bed manners, Fenris makes a tired, disgruntled sound.
Sleep first, talk later. It is all out of order.
Al rolls over and snuggles up to Fenris, who nuzzles his hair tenderly; he can smell wine—grapes, spice and…is that cheap tobacco leaf on his breath? All wrong. Fenris stretches out an arm for him, and he clings to his lover’s right arm like a life-saving rope in a sea of blood-tinged dreams.
